


When We Said We Were On Hiatus When We Were Really Just Broken (w.w.s.w.w.o.h.w.w.w.r.j.b)

by stripped-down-to-skeletons (and_the_devil_laughs)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Bandom - Freeform, Canon Divergence, Depression, Drug Use, F/M, FOB, Fluff, Hiatus, M/M, Misunderstandings, Moving On, Panic at the Disco - Freeform, Pete and Patrick (Fall Out Boy), Peterick, Recovery, Sexual Content, Soul Punk Era, Suicide mention, There's a focus on Pete and Patrick, andy hurly - Freeform, andy is going to be having a hard time and im very sorry, bandombigbang2015, but everyone else will be there even if its supporting roles, drug mention, fall out boy - Freeform, my chemical romance - Freeform, probably some nice grinding, slightly AU, these tags will evolve let me assure you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 22:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3546389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/and_the_devil_laughs/pseuds/stripped-down-to-skeletons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BandomBigBang2015 | for url retrogradeblades.</p><p>When they broke up, they meant it, but "hiatus" sounded less harsh. In the midst of failing careers after their breakup, a lot happened. Pete, dealing with a relapse and severe lapses of commons sense, and Patrick, working so hard on Soul Punk and getting too much hate for his efforts; Andy and Joe trying to move on only to get pulled back into drama and unhealthy patterns.</p><p>Set during the time of Hiatus, following Fall Out Boy and leading up to the reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When We Said We Were On Hiatus When We Were Really Just Broken (w.w.s.w.w.o.h.w.w.w.r.j.b)

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Bandom Big Bang 2015 as seen on tumblr. Thank you for taking the time to read this! Let's go over a few things before we get into the nitty gritty.
> 
> Trigger and Squick warnings: there is a lot of cursing, descriptions of depression, suicide mention, disassociation, drug use, drug mention, alcoholism, alcohol use, sexual scenes, intense confrontation, and other things that I will update. Do not read if you cannot handle the content.
> 
> My beta is awesome, and you can find them on tumblr at stvrfckr .
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: There is no way for me to own the very real people mentioned in this purely fictitious work. No profit has been or will ever be made.
> 
> Warning: If you found this by searching for your own name or the name of someone you know/are acquainted with, TURN BACK NOW. I'm so incredibly not proud of writing about you or your family and/or friends, and I mean no disrespect in doing so. Back up and we will both pretend that this does not exist.
> 
> With that covered, thank you and enjoy!

“What was that? Did you say you were ready to call it a night?”

  
A resounding _“no”_ echoed in chant throughout the arena, shadows and stage lights and a resilient bounce in the audience. Pete’s word’s came back at him tenfold, the inklings of “one more song” building. The ticking and wary percussion Andy provided built suspense, and it pounded in everyone’s heart in off-time staccato. It was amazing. Pete wiped away the sweat from his brow, glancing at Patrick only one of the hundreds of times he'd tried to hold his attention.

What bad terms to play on stage, and they still had one more song to agonize through. Patrick drank from his nearly empty water(his hands shaking, slightly, but enough for someone on stage to notice) and the song was already starting. Nerves were injected with anger and, now that the beginning of What a Catch was filling the venue, a dense sadness. Pete had the clearance on stage to watch Patrick, and he watched him carelessly, no enthusiasm left.

Patrick’s hat must have been horribly damp, Pete thought, because it was pissing him off that Pat kept readjusting it. He wore it and didn’t complain and his vocals didn’t suffer, but his moves were lazy. His eyes hung in a way that Pete knew and was on familiar terms with: he was exhausted, and angry, and he couldn’t handle all the eyes in the stadium. The only thing that made it possible to perform was the obedience to their fans, and that alone is like like a train running on fumes. Even Pete had the presence of mind to realize how wrecked they could get from that.

Pete walked heavily and without care, watching Patrick’s body language change as he approached. Half way into the song filled him with a sort of placidity, and he had to rest his forehead on Patrick’s stiff shoulder, and feeling the vibration of his own lyrics against his head. He shook Pete off not-too-subtly.

Cut out the bits where they say goodbye to the most receptive arena they've played in ages, cut out the booing they chose to ignore. Cut out the VIP fans and the signing and the wary glances to each other across a room they orbited as complete opposites. Cut out Pete having one too many drinks and the dim lights and Andy trying to calm him the hell down, because no one could handle that many shots and drinks and excitement and anger. He’d nearly punched the bartender for not having the right types of glasses to drink from and he’d nailed someone in the back hallway. Cut out the confusion of his absolutely not knowing what he took out of his pocket, overlooking the fact that they were different types of pills, and that he had had alcohol within 24 hours. Cut out the dizziness and fearing for his life.

Cut to the part where the van was stale and reeking of unwelcome and uncomfortably quiet but the only place that was home. Andy dropped Pete off at midnight, leading him to the couch because there wasn’t any hope of being able to get him in his top bunk. Andy left quickly to find Joe, and Patrick hadn’t been seen since the meet and greet.

Pete stood after something close to an hour, only to trip on discarded bottles of what the fuck ever it was (he can't see very well).He needed to take a piss and was sober enough not to do it in his jeans. Somehow, he hadn't completely fallen on his way to the stall. He pissed, and cleaned up a bit, and accidentally caught his reflection on the unclean mirror. Black rings of makeup smudged over his eyes and cheeks, and there was a bruise on his neck that he was certain wasn’t there earlier, and he was crying a lot heavier than he wanted. A stream of black specked down his cheeks and jaw. His head counted his heart beats. He hated the feel of his own heart.

What was he doing here, if he fucked up everything so badly? He tried too hard to feel like such a failure and worse enough, to drag others down with him like the anchor he is. Patrick didn’t deserve it. Joe, Andy, none of them did. He tasted the poison of the words he’d spat at them.

He blinked and more tears came. He wanted to laugh at how these were the terms he was probably going to leave Fall Out Boy on. Tears on lashes, scribbled notes and lyrics and songs that won't be made from them. Folie a Deux, their last album, and Patrick was going to leave it at that? Leave it at booing and critics and guys who like to pick fights with little guys in allies and crappy venues. Yeah, great place to cut ties.

Folie be damned, he wiped his eyes and breathed as deeply as he could without hurting his ribs. They were shattered from screaming and laughing and fucking and being a stupid idiot with no safety compass, no internal sense of what will and will not kill someone. He managed to take the dare to do a backflip without actually killing himself, which shouldn't have amazed him, but it did.

The tears fall less blackly than they did, less eyeliner to pick up now that he’d cried for long enough. His hands were shaking and his knees didn’t have enough sleep in them to stay stable. He was ready to sleep for a lot longer than eight hours.

Pete took a shuddering breath because he kept forgetting to breathe. He pushed the door to the side and stepped out of the cramped bathroom. He looked to the left, to the front of the bus where their bunks were, where the driver was supposed to be in seven hours, where the lights from Albany fell onto the floor and were the only illumination for that half of the bus. He spared a quick look to the back door, to the kitchenette just to the right of the living room area, to the television that was nearly flushed to the wall, to the light switch he didn’t remember turning off.

Fuck it if he’s supposed to think about that shit, or anything beyond passing out for 10 hours. He stumbled to the left and put his hand on the low bunk, whichever one it was, his eyes were too hazy to be useful.

It was dark and he was either drunk or hungover. He put his weight on one hand and leaned in, a knee planted on a blanket. Hoisting himself onto the bedding (laboriously, grunting when he hit his head), he settled in next to something very familiar.

He reached out his top hand, pressing his palm into Patrick’s waist. Face to face with Pat, his vision sharpened on instinct. Patrick was staring at him, and it was dark but his eyes were still vividly bright.

“Mmnn, Patty Cakes,” Pete mumbled, resting his hand comfortably against Patrick. “Hey, beautiful.” This is not a symptom of being drunk – or, rather, he does this all the time, drunk or not.

Whatever it was that kept Patrick quiet, whatever it was that didn’t kick Pete out before he lodged himself in his already cramped bunk, whatever it was, it was gone.

“Pete,” Pat shuffled, heart beating fast and strong with each of Pete’s finger drumming on his sides. “I… I heard you… a second ago… you know.”

Pete winced, closing his eyes, residue of water still left in his eyelashes. The gross sobbing, he obviously heard him. What a pity. How pitiful. “Oh… yeah…”

“I… I-I’m sorry… I know, I mean, yeah, I’m sorry… it’s not been easy lately, not really… I’m sorry, for my part in it, not for you being a jackass, but obviously I could have been really—”

Pete pressed his lips to Patrick’s. He could taste salt.

Patrick’s breathing was fast, and Pete pressed a little harder. Neither of them were good with words, but then again neither of them really tried to use them. Not when they needed to make up, not when they were drunk and exhausted. Pete was always the first to move, and it always flustered Patrick, way more than he’d ever seen him. It was quite a habit to break, one of his less harmful addictions, but there was no way he'd just not do it.

It never goes far, anyway. For whatever reason, there was always a reason, always a crisis blooming, and it wouldn’t do for them to actually move beyond chaste kisses, hugs, shared blankets after nightmares. He was pretty sure neither of them wanted it to go any farther, either.

Pete relaxed and fell back onto the pillow that they were stuck sharing because he was inconsiderate and crawled into the wrong bunk. “Yeah, I’m pretty fucking sorry too. I didn’t mean to say what I did. I didn’t mean to hurt everyone and I mean yeah I was out of line and a fucking prick but it's just me being a prick because I'm me, so I… didn't mean it.”

Patrick pulled Pete’s hand away from his side, unable to concentrate with the weight of Pete's hand on his pullover. “Promise me you won’t…”

“Hey, hey, I promise,” Pete whispered, because he could see what the effort Pat was putting into finishing the sentence. It was harsh and raw and stung with salt but was, to his credit, completely true. “I won’t. I’m not mad that I’m… still alive… if you were wondering, I mean…”

Patrick was trying hard not to cry, like it’d be some giant tell that would put Pete off or piss him off or do something that he was deathly afraid of. Pete moved his hand to Patrick’s face and his thumb interrupted the tears. He pushed his hair from his face.

“I’m going to stay that way, too. Alive, ya know. And I won't threaten you again, cross my bleeding heart.”

“Pete, it’s too much to talk about… not now, okay? I'm too fucking tired.”

“I know, I know…”

“Just –”

“Hey, take off this pullover,” Pete tugged a bit at the hoodie part clinging to Patrick, mostly because it was too late to talk business. Pat was already flustered, and he was losing the will to keep his eyes open. “It’s too hot.”

“…Nah, it’s okay, I-I’m not very –”

“Trick.” Pete dropped his hand to Patrick’s waist again, and tugged it up a bit, hiking it up like a curtain, feeling the rushed heat of Patrick’s breath on his cheek because he was embarrassed. Rosy cheeks and racing lungs, Patrick hated not being hidden, not being covered and away from eyes.

He hated Pete’s hand on his stomach like he would his own eyes – yeah, he was heavy. Yeah, he wasn’t proud, Pete knew. Pete didn’t care. “Come on, you’ll get heat stroke if you have to cuddle me in that, I swear to god.”

Patrick wanted to argue, but frailty of mind made the battle weak. He’d caught one too many news articles and tabloids on his weight this week, heard too many _“boos”_ and profanities, had his album put down too harshly, and couldn’t really fight Pete at the same time. With adjustments, he’d slipped out of the hoodie and was left in an undershirt that he absolutely wouldn’t take off. Pete pressed his stomach to Pat’s back and dipped his face into his neck.

“Hallelujah,” Pete breathed.

They both felt Patrick shiver from the touch, from the wetness on his neck.

-

“The hiatus won’t change anything.”

Patrick woke to the feeling of America passing under their bus. His eyes were bleary as he sat up on an elbow. Pete was standing, nursing a bad hangover with a hamburger. The light from the hallway was obstructed by Pete’s tiny frame, his extended arm that was offering a hamburger.

“Wha…what…?”

Pete lovingly slapped the burger against his head and Patrick was pretty lucky that it didn't crumble onto him. “Times Square. New York. It’s going to be good for us.”

The words echoing in his ears suddenly started ringing, and he just stared at Pete, holding on to the burger that he sure as hell didn’t have the appetite for. Pete throwing a fit over Patrick worrying about his pills because there were way too many he was taking, recently. The alcohol that he shouldn’t have mixed, and Andy hitting the road after they tossed each other into walls. Pete saying _I should have finished myself off the right way_ when Patrick brought the idea of “hiatus” to the table.

Three days of absolute avoidance stacked on weeks of touring and one fucking bus because they didn't have the hindsight to realize they'd all need more room. Patrick looked back to Pete, and it had been more than a few seconds that they stared at each other like idiots. Andy and Joe were pretty lively, whatever it was that made Joe shout out, “I GOT THE SOCK, I GOT IT, I WON”.

“I’ve been a piece of shit about it, but it’s going to… work? I guess. I hope. I want it to, at least.”

Patrick faked a smile, because he didn’t quite trust himself enough to be hopeful. “Man, me too.”

“I’m not better off dead.” A bump in the road fucks with Pete’s headache. Yeah, he'd said those words before, and Pat clocked him for it. He has the click in his jaw to prove it.

“Fucking right you’re not.”

Well, now what? Post show blues, a nagging headache, a bus full of assholes, and nowhere to go—a driver that can’t drive for fucking shit, a fucking headache? Pete shoved himself beside Patrick again, knocking his knees against Patrick who, _no, fucking no, what the hell_ —

“Eat your god damn burger” – Patrick was fidgeting, putting his hands all over the sheets in search of something, pissing Pete off – “and let me fucking lay the hell here—” Actually, Patrick’s hands were a lot closer to him, and _ow_ does he know how to throw a punch and land it where it hurts most.

“You fucking –” And Patrick, evidently, knows how to shove, because that’s what he did, with enough strength to knock Pete back on his ass. Pete was already red with anger and getting ready to go at it again, because what would really make Patrick so irrational? After he bought him food?

He stood and opened his mouth and he really didn’t expect what happened to happen.

Pills. Pills were tossed meagerly to his face, and he was lucky enough to have caught them as they scattered.  
Eight pills, familiar and _holy hell_ , these are what he spent the morning looking for. He woke up early for these, from the insomnia that didn’t let him sleep enough not to still need a pick-me-up.

“God fucking damn it,” Patrick gritted through his teeth. He was mad, but it wasn’t just that pouring from his eyes and making his fists shake at his sides. Pete just stared, eyes that wouldn’t dare look anywhere but Patrick, too guilty not to owe it to him the courtesy of watching him fall back on his words.

The bus was still. Andy was behind Pete, Joe behind him like they do in cartoons. Guitar hero booing filled the compartment, screaming and blaring and suddenly it was like their concerts. It was like every repressed _"you’re fucking trash"_ and " _asshole emo shit"_ they’d taken the blunt end of suddenly overflowed in that moment.

“I swear to god, these aren’t—”

“No,” came the yell. “You don’t fucking get to lie any more. What the fuck are you thinking?” He pointed to the medication in Pete's opened hands, on the floor. “Why are all of these different? Where the hell did you get one, two, five different prescriptions?”

Pete had had it with fighting. He would have punched him had his head not the mind to squeeze the life out of his eyes. He really couldn't say anything, because the answers sure as hell wouldn't have helped the situation.

  
Patrick looked ready to hit him if he said anything. Or nothing. His eyes were hues of anger and his lips white from repression.

Andy and Joe, the poor things, got booed off stage. Andy reached his hand out to rest on Pete's shoulder – who knew what for, consoling or to keep him from doing something so incredibly Pete Wentz. It was pretty strong, too. A drummer's grip.

“Pete, come on… just, come on.”

He didn't have any words and he didn't have the drive to fucking take a step. He was so lucky that he wasn't getting hit, but he could feel all of their hopes and disappointment claw at his skin, like eyes had nails.

“I...” _Get your voice on fucking point,_ Pete cleared his throat but Patrick made it pretty clear that he shouldn't speak.

“Madison square. That's it. We're done.”

Andy was the first to walk away.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback and criticism are amazing things and it'd be awesome if you could toss me a scrap.
> 
> Edit [Jan 30 2016] I am trying to nail the POV but i'm sure it will switch between Pat and Pete.


End file.
